t's been a while since I've had a rant about anything so mundane as...let's say...oh, I dunno...car insurance. So today I think I'll allow myself the little luxury of having a rant about...shall we say....*picking something out of the air as it whirls invisibly around my I-haven't-sorted-my-hair-out-yet-but-it's-my-day-off-so-fuck-it head*...car insurance.

Here in British Columbia (which is neither in Britain nor Columbia), insuring a vehicle is a bewilderingly complicated , time-consuming and (worst of all) expensive business. That is, unless you're insuring what they call a 'Collector' vehicle – usually a vintage car or truck which is mostly taken out on sunny days and shown off in the parking lots of A&W burger establishments – in which case, insurance barely costs you a smile and a certificate confirming that you are indeed a sad old bastard who wants to spend most of his time in the garage away from the wife. For most of us, insuring a vehicle is a little like going for a poo after eating the most spicy curry of your life: necessary but very uncomfortable, and occasionally downright painful.

By way of comparison, when I first arrived in Canada in 2002, the insurance for my first car ( a significantly distressed, long-in-the-tooth station wagon) cost me more than fifteen times the amount that I had been paying for a much smaller and significantly more valuable car in the UK only the week before. I was of course, as far as the Canadian system was concerned, a brand new driver with no history of blameless driving to help my premium rate, however it was still something of a shock to discover that buying mandatory insurance was giving me cause to seriously ponder the value of one of my kidneys on the black market.

Almost fifteen years later, the situation has improved as my driving history (let's leave aside those little misunderstandings about the speed limits on empty, dead straight roads, shall we?) has allowed me to build up a hefty discount. However, with a maximum discount I'm still paying around seven times what I was paying in the UK in 2002. The reasons for this have become self-evident during the time I have spent on the roads around this beautiful province.

There are two main problems. First and most importantly, BC drivers tend to be – let me see now; how shall I put this – unbelievably shite (yes, I think I nailed it). Having dealt with all kinds of bad driving as a copper in the UK, I have some insight into the subject, but local drivers tend to be really outstandingly incompetent. Obviously this issue (about which I've ranted more than once) tends to force up the price of insurance as my fellow citizens find it impossible – for any one of a thousand reasons - to maintain control of their steel and plastic chariots. One of the most common excuses put about by gormless people who find themselves standing alongside an upside-down car in a ditch, is that “The car lost control.”, which without any further comment from me should give you all the information you need about the general standard of driving in these here parts (*pause to spit in spittoon*).

The second problem – and this has become even more obvious during my time spent working within the law enforcement environment here – is that a great many people are insurance cheats. Either they don't bother insuring their vehicles at all and drive around in the not unreasonable hope that they will not be discovered, or they swap license plates with other vehicles owned by themselves or stolen from other vehicles, or they steal the validation stickers from license plates which then make sit appear that the vehicle is currently insured. I didn't realize until quite recently, but there are a great many people driving around out there without insurance. This makes me mad in a Yosemite Sam kind of way.​

Yes, just like this. But with more guns.

​It also makes what I discovered today all the more fucking​ infuriating.

My lovely wife and I, steeled for the experience, had gone to our usual insurance broker office to change something on the cover for our 'spare' vehicle, and to query something. The query was about the rate that I had been given for the old banger's (that's the car, NOT my lovely wife) insurance, which had seemed rather high. Imagine, then, our delight to be told that an additional premium had been charged to the vehicle's cover because – and I'll have to take a deep breath before proceeding with bullet points – of the following:

My ex wife had caused an accident in my old car in 2007.

Because she had permission to drive my car in 2007, I was deemed to be partially at fault.

The surcharge for that crash (paid rather grumpily by me for three years) still exists, ​nine years later.

Since my ex wife (from whom I was divorced six years ago) suddenly seems to no longer own her own car, that surcharge had been applied back to me for fuck's sake, as the owner of the old banger (which has no connection to my ex wife and never has had), when I first insured it this year.

This had been done without telling me about it or explaining that it might ever happen.

So, our trustworthy public sector mandatory third party liability-providing insurance organization had quietly – actually I prefer the word 'sneakily' or even 'dishonestly' – applied a surcharge to my insurance because my ​ex-wife no longer owns a car. In other words, they wanted money from somebody/anybody, and since she wasn't paying them anything any longer, they thought that they'd surreptitiously get it from me! And what's worse: they fucking DID!

I need hardly explain why this is an unfair and underhand way to take someone's money (if I do need to explain further, perhaps we should no longer be friends) – money from someone who had the temerity to allow his (then) wife to drive the family car! It's bizarre, it's outrageous (how many other people are being gouged this way without even knowing about it?) and it's dishonest. Dishonest? Oh yes – how else would we have been able to have had this surcharge removed with a single visit to the broker today? One question about it, and the charge (and by the way: for what, exactly; what risk do I – or have I ever – represented?) is magically made to go away. That simply doesn't happen with legitimate charges. With a legitimate charge, I'd have had no recourse. Bastards!

I'm not sure what annoys me more – the underhand nature of this whole matter, or the knowledge that it underlines what an insignificant little runt I am when it comes to dealing with large corporations. I'm not even worthy of being told what they're doing to me until I come across the little scam by accident. Best invest in more Vaseline, eh?

The image above is a picture - taken a few years ago - of our dog (or, as my good lady likes to tell me: MY dog), Bosco. His full name is actually Bosco McStuffington Samolis (look: if we want to be silly and childish and give our dog a ridiculous name, we will; it's OUR - well my - dog after all), but he will not answer to that. In fact he typically responds to a simple "Boz" or "Bosco!" when he's in the shit for not responding to "Boz", and is continuing to eat grass/vomit/other dogs' poo.

He's also dying. Not in the typical way, I should point out. His internal organs are all working fine. It's his skeleton that's letting him down. As of yesterday, this German Shepherd/Mastiff mix weighed 116lbs. The problem with being such a big lad has revealed itself this year - he basically has no hip joints left. Great! No problem! I hear you say enthusiastically. Just get him new hips! I hear you yell encouragingly. Well, no. If it was so easy, there wouldn't be an issue.

First problem: $10,000 per hip just for the operation. His femurs are almost worn away ( he has no ball & socket joint at all - it's all held in there with musculature) and requires extensive reconstruction. Minimum $20K just for the operations.Second: After-care would cost thousands more, plus medications for a long time afterwards.Third: The vet advises that there is a strong chance that the operations would not be successful, especially given his size and previously active nature. He could screw it up within a week of getting back on his feet, and we might be back at square one.Fourth: He also has a blown cruciate ligament in one knee (which was when we discovered the hip problem)...another $5K plus associated costs.

It's a horrible choice to have to make, but our very experienced and kind vet doesn't recommend that we even try to find the money (which we don't have). Putting it clinically, our wonderful dog is dying as his disability worsens despite the drugs that we're feeding him. It's heartbreaking, and it overshadows our lives right now. We're about to lose a family member.

I've lived with dogs from my earliest years. The first one that I have memories of (Baron, the yellow lab) came into my life when I was five years old and stayed there (at times he was my best friend) until I was nineteen, when he was taken out of the house while I was at work and never came back (euthanized by the vet due to a heart condition, and a complete shock to me). I'm still very sad about that. Dogs, however, otherwise make me happy; they interact with us in ways that no other animal seems to. They give and they expect nothing in return. They so obviously enjoy being with us - being the pack member. You might say that I'm a confirmed dog lover.

Bosco has been an exceptional companion. He and his brother Buckley came into our lives six years ago and instantly became delightful members of our 'pack'. Incredibly good-natured, gentle and easy to train, they were both wonderful companions for us and one another. Sadly, Buckley died four years ago from what was thought to be a congenital liver problem. From diagnosis to his death, we nursed him and cared for him for over five months (coincidentally, the same period between Bosco's diagnosis and the point we have now reached). That was bad enough; watching our friend fail and lose his sparkle over those months, watching him fight back against the odds and then lose the energy to struggle on any longer. Ending his life was traumatic, our goodbyes heart-wrenching and heartfelt.

​We have had four more years to become entangled in whatever cunning web it is that Bosco has woven around us all. Each of us has fallen under his spell of innocent, unconditional loyalty and affection. If a dog has ever been more loved, I'd be astonished. Now, his final days are on the horizon, years too soon for it to be considered in any way fair.

​The universe doesn't give a shit. Bosco's death will change nothing in the grand scheme of things (although there is no 'grand scheme' of course) and the planet will continue revolving on its axis and screaming at breakneck speed around Sol. We will know, however. Our small family group will understand what the world has lost: the gentlest of beings, an unconditional, dutiful and brave member of the pack, but most importantly to us all, a member of our family loved openly and completely by each one of us. I don't know how he did it. I'm not sure how he so effectively wrapped each one of us around his dew claw and made us love him as we would another human, but he did. He will be so sorely missed by each of our family, I cannot imagine his star every fading from our memories. He has been the best.

​In fact that's how he's done it: he's the very best dog in the world and we have been so fortunate to have him with us for his brief stay. Thank you big fellah; thank you for being the best and for sharing your awesomeness with us.

It's been an interesting few months, in particular with regard to health matters. Of course, at this time of my life, when I use the words 'health matters', what I'm really doing is using code for "The latest infuriating ways in which my body is letting me down.". Recently I've been told - by a very odd-looking specialist who seems to wear the same clothes every day - that there is more wrong with my neck and upper limbs than I had suspected. One of these issues has so far been symptom-free, which as any hypochondriac will tell you through the walls of their oxygen tent, is the most terrifying situation that such people (including me) can find themselves in. Symptom-free, for crying out loud? Whose idea wasthat?

What the HELL is the point of having a problem if there are no symptoms of having it? I mean, before I knew that I had this issue, I...well I suppose this is a bit self-explanatory now...didn't know that I had it, and was therefore at least 3.7% happier! Now, my happiness quotient has been lowered because I know that I have the problem - and lowered even more as a result of the knowledge that I can have a problem and yet be symptom-free! Following that logic, it's entirely possible - in fact, in the tradition of the true hypochondriac: more than probable - that I have EVERYTHING! Oh jeez...

This latest little batch of medical discoveries has served to heighten my senses to some of life's physical inconveniences, some of which I'd like to share with you in the hope that they may strike a chord and help me to feel that I'm not alone in my dreadful suffering. I'll break them down into categories as I perceive them:

MILD PAIN IN THE REAR:

Why do toenails grow so quickly? I'll tell you why: the little fuckers KNOW that I can't reach them without getting out of breath and turning purple.

The moustache hairs that grow not outward but upward into my nostrils. They are about seven in number. I hate them with a fierce passion reserved usually for drivers who don't indicate when they should (that's every Canadian driver, then).

My sticky-outy left ear, which, having been damaged many moons ago through playing rugby, wakes me up at night with a painful throbbing sensation when it is fed up of being laid upon. Twat.

The hairs at the back of my head (the ones that are left, anyway) which choose to grow faster than the rest and have the tendency to create a wig-like effect back there as they stick out and away from the top of my neck, making me look even more silly than I do anyway. Bastards.

MODERATE ACHE IN THE BUTTOCK REGION:

Beard or moustache hairs which for some reason become hyper-sensitive to being touched. Even looking at them feels like having a sewing needle jabbed into the face. Totally unnecessary and unacceptable.

Boogers which I know are up there and can't reach, yet which defy any blowing or sniffing efforts to remove them. Somehow they always interfere with the free flow of air in a way utterly disproportionate to their size. An excellent motivation for the development of micro-robots specifically for nose-picking duties.

Itchy ears - specifically, that type of infuriating itchiness that is impossible to leave alone, and which I know will result in soreness and some minor oozing after I've rubbed it raw. Why does this happen? Can't they just itch once and let it go? No, they're possessed.

While we're on itches: those gotta-get-it-now-or-it'll-kill-me itches that occur in the precise part of my back which is unreachable yet which still cause me to try anyway, resulting in a wrenching injury which in turn nicely complements the old rotator cuff silliness and makes the arm useless for half an hour or so. Thanks.

Knees which absolutely refuse to allow me to kneel upon them. A strange one, this, because it doesn't feel like a joint thing - it feels like a soft-tissue-around-the-joint thing. I can't kneel down on a hard surface (in fact soft surfaces are dodgy, too) for longer than thirty seconds without the pain reaching really obnoxious levels. Knees which are no good for kneeling upon are starting to walk upon thin ice, if you ask me.

Paper cuts - one question: why? That is all.

TOTAL PAIN THE ARSE:

Being unable (as I've just discovered) to easily process gluten, which makes my favourite food in the world- regular soft, white bread - completely off limits. Utter, utter BASTARDY of an order never yet experienced by another human being. Pastry is right out, too. More evidence that there is no God.

Eyes which continue to slowly reduce their efficiency levels, and currently at the point where I am effectively 'between prescriptions'. The upshot is that I'm stuck wearing two pairs of spectacles - one on my head and one on my eyes - and neither of them works particularly well. This is especially 'helpful' at work, when I frequently need to looking at a close-to-me computer screen and then switch to documentation two feet further away (stuck to a wall - don't ask because I can't be bothered explaining) and I end up always with the wrong specs on, squinting and blinking and cursing in equal measure. Come on eyes: get a fucking grip.

Hangnails - the most annoying things on the planet, excepting - possibly - Donald Trump. They're so tiny, yet so incredibly aggravating. Before being yanked out (i.e. too small to get a grip of, even with tweezers) they catch on EVERYTHING just to remind you that they're there, the little swine. Then, once summarily removed (whether by teeth or aforementioned tweezers/pliers), they hurt like bloody hell for a week or so before everything calms down again (assuming it does so without liberal applications of antiseptic ointments and unctures).

I know that I've been fortunate to get to this age without having to suffer from anything immediately life-threatening (although I suppose type 1 diabetes is reasonably significant), and I don't wish to make light of anyone's suffering. But bloody hell, bodies can be annoying, can't they?